h sleepless devotion, and he
was willing to let his master have a sight of his first effort of the
kind,--for he was not a sculptor, it must be remembered, though he had
modelled in clay, not without some success, from time to time.

"Come with me," he said.

The master climbed the stairs with him up to his modest chamber. A
closely shrouded bust stood on its pedestal in the light of the solitary
window.

"That is my ideal personage," Clement said. "Wait one moment, and you
shall see how far I have caught the character of our uncrowned queen."

The master expected, very naturally, to see the conventional young woman
with classical wreath or feather headdress, whom we have placed upon our
smallest coin, so that our children may all grow up loving Liberty.

As Clement withdrew the drapery that covered his work, the master stared
at it in amazement. He looked at it long and earnestly, and at length
turned his eyes, a little moistened by some feeling which thus betrayed
itself, upon his scholar.

"This is no ideal, Clement. It is the portrait of a very young but
very beautiful woman. No common feeling could have guided your hand in
shaping such a portrait from memory. This must be that friend of yours
of whom I have often heard as an amiable young person. Pardon me, for
you know that nobody cares more for you than I do,--I hope that you are
happy in all your relations with this young friend of yours. How could
one be otherwise?"

It was hard to bear, very hard. He forced a smile. "You are partly
right," he said. "There is a resemblance, I trust, to a living person,
for I had one in my mind."

"Did n't you tell me once, Clement, that you were attempting a bust of
Innocence? I do not see any block in your room but this. Is that done?"

"Done with!" Clement answered; and, as he said it, the thought stung
through him that this was the very stone which was to have worn the
pleasant blandness of pretty Susan's guileless countenance. How the new
features had effaced the recollection of the others!

In a few days more Clement had finished his bust. His hours were again
vacant to his thick-coming fancies. While he had been busy with his
marble, his hands had required his attention, and he must think closely
of every detail upon which he was at work. But at length his task was
done, and he could contemplate what he had made of it. It was a triumph
for one so little exercised in sculpture. The master had told him so,
and h